all, it _is_ good news," says Brian, brightening, "because
though I can't stop in the house for the week, still there is nothing to
prevent my riding over there every one of the seven days."

"That's just what I thought," says Monica, ingenuously, with a sweet
little blush.

"Ah! you wished for me, then?"

She refuses to answer this in any more direct manner than her eyes
afford, but says, quickly, doubtfully,--

"It won't be deceiving Aunt Priscilla, your coming there to visit, will
it? She must know she cannot compel Madam O'Connor to forbid you the
house. And she knows perfectly you are an intimate friend of hers."

"Of course she does. She is a regular old tyrant,--a Bluebeard in
petticoats; but----"

"No, no; you must not abuse her," says Monica: so he becomes silent.

She is standing very close to the trunk of the old beech, half leaning
against it upon one arm which is slightly raised. She has no gloves, but
long white mittens that reach above her elbow to where the sleeves of
her gown join them. Through the little holes in the pattern of these
kindly mittens her white arms can be seen gleaming like snow beneath
the faint rays of the early moon. With one hand she is playing some
imaginary air upon the tree's bark.

As she so plays, tiny sparkles from her rings attract his notice.

"Those five little rings," says Desmond, idly, "always remind me of the
five little pigs that went to market,--I don't know why."

"They didn't all go to market," demurely. "One of them, I _know_, stayed
at home."

"So he did. I remember now. Somehow it makes me feel like a boy again."

"Then, according to Hood, you must be nearer heaven than you were a
moment ago."

"I couldn't," says Desmond, turning, and looking into her beautiful
eyes. "My heaven has been near me for the last half-hour." If he had
said _hour_ he would have been closer to the truth.

A soft, lovely crimson creeps into her cheeks, and her eyes fall before
his for a moment. Then she laughs,--a gay, mirthful laugh, that somehow
puts sentiment to flight.

"Go on about your little pigs," she says, glancing at him with
coquettish mirth.

"About your rings, you mean. I never look at them that I don't begin
this sort of thing." Here, seeing an excellent opportunity for it,
he takes her hand in his. "This little turquoise went to market,
this little pearl stayed at home, this little emerald got
some--er--cheese----"

"No, it wasn't," hastily. "It was ro